


Practice Makes Perfect

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Inline with canon, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 18:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21415003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'Oh, Galen,' Krennic says, and lifts the glass Galen is ignoring from the table towards his own lips. 'You really are a terrible liar, aren’t you?'" Galen Erso learns how to lie.
Relationships: Galen Erso/Orson Krennic
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Practice Makes Perfect

“You missed me,” Krennic says the first day, purring the words over the glass of wine he pours and offers to Galen’s unresponsive hands. “Come now, Galen. There’s no one here but the two of us and we both know already.” The glass slides closer. Krennic tips in over the table as if he’s urging confidence. His smile is dark in his eyes and sharp with childish malice at his teeth. “You wished for my company, there on your godforsaken rock of a planet.”

Galen shakes his head. He doesn’t reach for the glass. “I didn’t,” he says, in a voice that echoes back over the last hours that have stretched as long and bone-chilling cold as the vastness of space. “I hadn’t thought of you in years.”

Krennic crackles over a laugh. “Oh, Galen,” he says, and lifts the glass Galen is ignoring from the table towards his own lips. “You really are a terrible liar, aren’t you?” He tips the glass back to fill his mouth with the biting sweet of the alcohol and hold the burn of it against his tongue. When he sets the glass at the table and reaches out for Galen’s head Galen shuts his eyes to the pressure of Krennic’s lips meeting his to pour intoxication down his throat.

“I hear you have a breakthrough for me,” Krennic says, his voice carrying the same crisp edge of his polished boots clicking against the floor of the research facility. “Tell me.”

“It’s the power source,” Galen says, lifting his hand to gesture towards the screen of calculations he has been running through for the past three weeks. “There’s no way to get this kind of destructive power from on-board fuel supplies, not with the mobility that you’re looking for. But if we pull it from an outside source and run the conversion within the weapon itself--” He presses a button on his keyboard and his screen flickers, churning through dozens of formulae at once as it produces a result. “We can fit the function within the core while still maintaining flexibility.”

Krennic leans in over Galen’s workstation to peer at the numbers flowing across the screen before he heaves a sigh of consummate pleasure. “_Beautiful_.” His hand comes off the back of Galen’s chair to clasp against the other’s shoulder with affectionate encouragement. “I knew you’d find the answer we needed.”

Galen blinks and shakes his head. “I’m not doing this for the Empire,” he says. “I’m not on your side, Krennic.”

“Mm,” Krennic hums. “Of course you’re not.” His hand slides up Galen’s shoulder to brush against the side of the other’s neck and ghost into the suggestion of a caress. Galen doesn’t turn his head to see if anyone around him sees the gesture. He knows they’ll pretend not to even if they do, the same way no one is watching when Krennic leans in to breathe the shape of his smile against the curve of Galen’s ear. “You don’t enjoy the challenge of this at all. Tell me, are you gullible enough to believe your own lies, Galen?” He pauses for a moment, as if he’s really expecting an answer; then he huffs a laugh, and straightens to pace away again, leaving Galen with his jaw set and cheeks flushed as he stares at his greatest achievement to date.

“I hate you,” Galen gasps, the words pulled to strain by the backwards tilt of his head against Krennic’s bedsheets and the flex of his chest over the pant of his breathing. “I never--never wanted this from you.”

“Liar,” Krennic says, sounding nearly as breathless as Galen does. He’s flushed with heat, his hair falling forward and free of its usual rigid styling; with a lock of it curling against his forehead he looks almost like the man he used to be when they first met each other, when Krennic’s laugh came without the edge of teeth under it and Galen’s answering smiles didn’t taste like betrayal. Krennic leans in over Galen beneath him and braces a steadying hand high up against the other’s thigh. “You’re not even trying to be persuasive anymore, are you?”

Galen might be able to find a response to that, if allowed the time; but Krennic is already rocking himself forward, and in the rush of sensation that follows the only thing he has to offer is the involuntary honesty of a groan to answer the rhetoric of Krennic’s question.

“And here we have Galen Erso,” Krennic declares, waving his arm wide to encompass both results and researcher together. “He has been most vital during the development process. I firmly believe that were it not for his assistance we would be no further towards our goal than we were a year ago.”

“Impressive work,” says one of the touring generals. “Certainly everyone appears busier now than they were, at least. Are you willing to provide us with a timeline for when you expect this grand weapon to be completed?”

Krennic clears his throat. “It’s difficult to put a date on it,” he says. “With the uncertainties still to be resolved--”

“I do not wish the Empire to be inventing work for your childhood friend,” the general says without waiting for Krennic to finish speaking. “You may have won some measure of status for yourself, Director, but you will find leniency stretched thin indeed should you try to drag it over known traitors.”

“_Traitors_,” Krennic gasps. “Galen Erso is hardly a traitor. We have had our differences of opinion, it is true, but--”

“What does Erso say himself?” the general asks, turning aside from Krennic with easy dismissal. “Does he have so little to say in the face of the Empire?”

Galen looks up from his workstation. Krennic is hissing at the general, visibly furious and as visibly incapable of giving any kind of voice to his protest; the general himself is considering Galen, his chin lifted and haughty gaze cast down the long bridge of his nose as he considers the man set to develop the Empire’s greatest weapon. Krennic doesn’t look back to offer any sign or gesture to direct Galen’s response; as far as Galen can tell, he is entirely caught up in his own bruised feelings. Galen is no more than a piece in the tug-of-war between the general and Krennic, perhaps even more of a tool than the weapon he has spent the last years working on; and in the tense silence he draws a breath and speaks.

“It is true that Director Krennic was forced to provide a great deal of persuasion to me initially before I joined on the project.” The general’s eyebrows raise, Krennic twists to stare shock at Galen, but Galen doesn’t look away from the level focus he’s offering to the representative of the Empire itself in his research laboratory. “But that was many years ago.” Galen’s gaze drifts out-of-focus past the general’s shoulder; for a moment he is standing in a field of crops, his heart pounding in his chest and his tongue struggling over the shape of unfamiliar lies. He gazes into the past for a long moment, recalling who he was, the man he used to be; and then he takes a breath, and brings himself back to the present.

“I am a changed man,” he says, the words flat with honesty. “Director Krennic has taken great personal effort to show me the error of my ways.” He bows his head, breaking eye contact with the general in favor of offering up humility, surrender, the passivity of a beaten man. “I can imagine no greater satisfaction now than the pride I take in the work I do on this project.”

Over his head the general sniffs, amused and scornful at once. “It seems you were right after all, Director,” he says, sounding as if this admission is costing him personally. “He is quite thoroughly brought to heel, isn’t he?” The general turns aside, his boots clicking as he sweeps himself back towards the door. “You may continue your efforts, with the provision of regular status reports to back up your results.”

“Of course,” Krennic grates. “We are so grateful to your benevolence.” There is hate in his gaze when Galen looks up to him, sharp and petty as a schoolboy rivalry, but it disintegrates to warmth as he looks back to Galen. Krennic lifts a hand to press familiarity to Galen’s shoulder; then he turns to trail after the general, the tension of his shoulders and the thud of his boots speaking loudly to the lie of the words he offered. Galen watches until Krennic has caught up to the general and leaned in to offer some further commentary; then he turns back to his screen, and loses himself in the complexities of his work once more.

“Thank you.”

The words are soft, nearly lost to the weight of the blankets tumbled around Galen’s body and the line of his shoulder where Krennic is mumbling speech. Galen blinks, urged back into awareness of the moment from the distant daydream where he had been wandering by the sound of Krennic’s voice. Krennic is sprawled over him, one arm cast into proprietary weight around Galen’s waist and a knee bracing between Galen’s own, but his face is pressing into the sheets behind the other’s shoulder until Galen isn’t completely sure he spoke at all.

“Sorry,” Galen says. “What was that?”

Krennic’s hand at his waist tightens, his fingers flexing into a tighter grip like he’s trying out the possibility of a hug before he lets his hold go and turns his head so he can speak with more clarity. “Thank you,” he says, sounding almost petulant with the force he puts on the words. “For what you said this afternoon during the general’s tour. You saved me a lot of effort persuading him to support us.”

“Oh,” Galen says. He turns his head to look up at the ceiling of his room instead of at Krennic’s face pressing against his shoulder. “Right.”

“I was right,” Krennic says. “Wasn’t I, Galen? You would never have been happy on that rock.” He snorts amusement. “As a  _ farmer_, no less.” He lifts his head to look down at the other. “This is where you belong, you know. Putting your brilliant mind to work. Here with me.” Krennic lifts his hand to press to the side of Galen’s face, trailing against the line of the other’s jaw before he ducks down to press his lips against Galen’s own. Galen shuts his eyes in surrender to the contact and doesn’t open them again until Krennic pulls back with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You made the right decision to come with me,” Krennic says. “You  _ belong _ with me, Galen.”

Galen looks up at Krennic’s face: the hard line of his mouth, the shadow in his eyes, the self-satisfaction that has laid itself into every part of him, from the soft pout of his lips to the tilt of his chin. Then he takes a breath, and he curves his mouth into the soft of a smile.

“Yes,” he says. “You’re right, Orson.”

Krennic’s smile breaks into a laugh, bright and sparkling in the space-cold shadows of his eyes. His hand presses to Galen’s cheek, his head ducks down to claim another kiss, and Galen shuts his eyes the better to offer the illusion of affection.

The best lies, he has learned, are to those that others want most to believe.


End file.
